


When Silence Is Denial

by loveinheaven



Category: Matilda the Musical - Minchin/Kelly
Genre: Gen, Matilda - Freeform, Matilda the Musical, My House, basically a retelling of my house, i was bored sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinheaven/pseuds/loveinheaven
Summary: It is a human habit to avoid responding to the things we are too scared to acknowledge.So when Miss Honey goes silent, Matilda knows something is wrong.





	When Silence Is Denial

Matilda Wormwood lacked in every area. She was physically small, weak and didn't look nearly ordinary. She had an unstable family, and her home life was nothing like that of her peers. 

She was broken. She was afraid. She tried not to expect the world, but somehow, she occasionally slipped up and wanted everything and more from life, even when she knew she could never have it. Matilda Wormwood was a flawed individual. Young, flawed, broken, damaged. More than anyone could possibly handle. 

And that was why nobody wanted her.

Not her parents, not her classmates, not her teachers, not anyone. She was unwanted and unloved.

But she convinced herself, day and night, that she didn't need somebody. She could get along just fine with nobody at her back. But somebody in this great big world… needed her. 

So Matilda made it a regularity to put others before herself. She knew that she wasn't anything much, but she was smart. Her mind was beyond compare, yes, but she stood out because her heart was larger than her body. She was more selfless than anyone had ever known a child her age to be.

She wouldn't be so selfless if she believed she was worth anything. But, because she believed she was worth nothing, she believed other people were worth… something.

Matilda had always known something was wrong with Miss Honey. The youngest Wormwood child was incredibly good at reading people, and she had known since she met Miss Honey that she was different. Even though Miss Honey was excellent at putting on an incredibly kind facade that was nearly too good to be true, Matilda knew better than to believe it.

So, Matilda, this little, selfless girl, one day chose to open herself up to Miss Honey and show her something that was impossible, but impossibly true. She stared at a cup on the table and focused, pouring every ounce of her anger and hatred and regret into that cup. It hurt her, too. Her head pounded and her eyes burned as she tried to pull her thoughts out and compile them into one place. She wanted to cry. But, she didn't. For Miss Honey, she remembered. For Miss Honey.

Slowly, the cup began to overflow with her emotions. Matilda knew Miss Honey couldn't see it, but Matilda’s emotions took on a dark violet color, and, like a denser version of a cloud, billowed over the top of the cup. They spilled over the edge, flowing onto the floor, several wisps breaking apart from the larger mass.

And the cup falls.

And Miss Honey, in shock, turns to Matilda with a look of astonishment plastered on her kind face. And she doesn't know what to say. So, reluctantly, Miss Honey did not speak much of Matilda’s brilliant mind, but rather, simply invited her over for tea. 

The walk to Miss Honey’s house was silent. It was full of many thoughts, but not one of them was verbalized. The two minds managed to remain echoes until they finally arrived, at which point Miss Honey finally spoke.

“Here we are. Home, sweet home.”

And Matilda, she struggled to understand for a moment. How was this enough for anyone? Her mind echoed, like it had time and time again. Miss Honey deserves more than this, so why doesn't she have it?

Not once did Matilda think about her own family. How she was constantly belittled and called a lying, nasty little creep by her own father. How she was nicknamed a jumped-up little germ by her own mother, the one who gave her the gift of life (if it even was a gift for a child like Matilda). Matilda forgot all the times she was called a boy, and all the times she was reminded that she ruined her parents’ lives. She forgot all the times that she was called a weasel and a bore and a stupid, lousy little bookworm by her father. She forgot all the times she watched her dad rip her books to shreds right before her eyes. She forgot all of it. All those moments, gone. Like they had somehow evaporated from her mind.

All that existed now, all that mattered now, was Miss Honey. Miss Honey, her amazing teacher that deserved more.

“Are you poor?” Matilda asked, putting herself aside.

Miss Honey stopped in her tracks, taken aback for a moment. Then she let out a little laugh. “Why… yes. Yes I am.”

And Matilda prompted Miss Honey to continue, completely enthralled by her teacher’s tale.

Miss Honey handed Matilda a warm mug of tea, with milk and honey and a biscuit, and poured herself a cup of tea with only a spoonful of sugar. And the two sat and talked, for what felt like much longer than it actually was.

When the woman spoke, the child listened. And Miss Honey began her story. For once in her life, Matilda did not make herself useful by being the teller of stories. She made herself useful, this time, by being the listener.

Miss Honey’s aunt, she learned, was a horrible woman. She became Miss Honey’s legal guardian when she was only a little girl, just after her mother died.

Even a story so simple held  
such a painstaking familiarity. 

And then it got worse. This aunt, she forced Miss Honey to pay her back for every penny that she spent on the little girl. And the house that was rightfully hers, the aunt took that, too.

And so here she was, living inside a shed. She had nothing, yet she claimed to have everything she needed.

Tenderly, slowly, Miss Honey reached into a small chest and removed a white scarf, shining with the light from the fire beneath the tea kettle. The edges were frayed with age, but it was obvious that this scarf had been handled with only the most careful hands; only the most gentle touch. And Miss Honey held it with just that, draping it around Matilda’s neck with a reluctant half-smile.

“Miss Honey,” Matilda whispered, gently fingering the frayed edges of the scarf, the soft material loosely flowing when she moved to look up at her teacher. “Is this your father’s scarf?”

Miss Honey nodded. “Yes… yes it is.” 

Matilda cast her eyes down toward the scarf again. The light from the fire illuminated half of her face with an orange glow, and it also illuminated the face of her teacher, who was considering telling her student more about the scarf. When Matilda lifted the scarf’s fraying edge with an open palm, Miss Honey was prompted to continue.

“My mother gave it to him before she died. You see, she was…”

And then it all made sense. All the times Matilda had thought she felt some sort of connection with her teacher in some world beyond this reality, they all made sense now. 

Miss Honey’s mother. She was an acrobat. Matilda said this aloud, matter-of-factly. She was never the type to assume someone’s story, but this time, she was not assuming. She knew for a fact that she had seen Miss Honey’s mother somewhere. Somewhere.

“Yes. And my father, he was-”

“An escapologist.”

Miss Honey’s face fell, but then, in less time than it ever had before, her expression shifted to this shocked, concerned face that Matilda had never seen before. “Matilda,” Miss Honey said quietly, trying to remain calm even though her face had already betrayed her. “How did you know that?”

Matilda couldn't explain. She didn't know how she knew. She tightened her grip on the scarf and shook her head, still trying to comprehend what she just heard. “So… they were your parents?” Matilda asked, knowing that if this was her own teacher’s life, she would have to do anything she could to rewrite her story. If Matilda was right about this, she would throw herself between her teacher and the stories she was telling. This was all her fault. 

Matilda had all the evidence. She just never pieced it all together.

And now, because she didn't act fast enough, her beloved teacher was suffering.

Miss Honey’s pale blue eyes began to well up with tears. “What? Who?” She choked, overwhelmed by guilt and regret and all the emotions shown in the dark eyes of the little girl sitting before her.

Matilda solemnly looked up at Miss Honey, willing her not to cry. “The people in my story,” she explained, quietly speaking to Miss Honey, but speaking to herself at the same time.

“I've been telling a story, and all this time, I thought I was making it up.” Matilda stopped, breathing, trying to keep herself from escalating this too far. She failed, and standing up with tears in her eyes, she proclaimed, “But… it’s real, and it's your life. I've seen your life!”

And Miss Honey was taken aback. No, taken aback is not strong enough. She was mortified. She was suddenly scared of the girl in front of her. Scared for her life, scared for the life of this child, scared for how much Matilda Wormwood actually knew. 

“You've seen my life?”

Matilda nodded. Silence overtook the room. The fire was still the only light, as the night had fallen and all was still. Except for Matilda and Miss Honey. Both of their minds were running rampant and had no intent to stand still.

“Your aunt. She… she did your father in. She killed him! We have to go to the police,” Matilda pleaded, not caring what anyone else thought of her at this point. All she needed to do was help Miss Honey. 

And her teacher would not accept her help.

And so when the silence returned, Matilda let go of the scarf and grabbed Miss Honey’s hands, pulling her up in an attempt to take her to the police station immediately. The world had to know that Miss Honey knew a murderer. This murderer had to be sent to prison, tonight.

And Matilda didn't care if it was the last thing she’d do.

And then the room was full of noises again, and Miss Honey yelled and Matilda protested and everything was screaming and fighting and pulling and kicking and crying and guilt and regret for things Matilda couldn't have changed if she wanted to.

“Your aunt. She’s a murderer,” Matilda insisted, shakily wiping a tear from her eye. “Who is she?”

And then she knew. It was another one of those moments when her mind just told her: yes, that's exactly it. And her mind spoke to her, and she knew. And suddenly, Matilda felt very sick to her stomach, and Miss Honey knew that Matilda knew something, because that familiar expression Matilda always gave when she learned something, whether it was intentional or not, returned. And Matilda stood there, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly opened as she realized who this aunt really was.

And it was none other than Miss Trunchbull herself.


End file.
